The capital phenomenon, the most catastrophic disaster, is uninterrupted sleeplessness, that nothingness without release.

The only free mind is one that, pure of all intimacy with beings or objects, plies its own vacuity.

The deepest and most organic death is death in solitude, when even light becomes a principle of death. In such moments you will be severed from life, from love, smiles, friends and even from death. And you will ask yourself if there is anything besides the nothingness of the world and your own nothingness.

To think is to take a cunning revenge in which we camouflage our baseness and conceal our lower instincts.

There is no other world. Nor even this one. What, then, is there? The inner smile provoked in us by the patent nonexistence of both.

Pursued by our origins... we all are.

In every man sleeps a prophet, and when he wakes there is a little more evil in the world.